


Seen Through Rosy Glass

by Syntaxeme



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - The Great Gatsby Fusion, M/M, Non-Chronological, Obsession, Reunions, Star-crossed, Trans Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaxeme/pseuds/Syntaxeme
Summary: [Great Gatsby AU, sort of an amalgam of the book, the movie, and existing Hazbin dynamics]Alastor and Angel were lovers years ago before life pulled them apart. Angel moved on and married someone else, but Alastor has never gotten over his first and only love. Now that he's made a name for himself, he can think of nothing but getting Angel back, whatever the cost. When Angel's naive and unassuming cousin, Charlie, moves in right next door to him, he sees it as the perfect opportunity for a reunion--and if anyone comes between him and Angel again, therewillbe Hell to pay.[Non-sequential chapters, just choosing individual scenes to write]
Relationships: Alastor & Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	1. Awfully Glad to See You Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor has convinced Charlie to set up a meeting between him and Angel--but after so long apart, does he even know how to talk to Angel anymore?

To say that Alastor was a bundle of nerves would’ve been a gross understatement. What time was it now? Maybe 3? Maybe 4? He’d been waiting with Charlie in this little mess of a cabin for hours, yet still Angel hadn’t shown. Charlie had promised that he would be there. She was so certain that he wouldn’t refuse an invitation from her. Yet as the moments wore on, Alastor became more and more sure himself that all his hopes for a reunion were ridiculous, unrealistic, and he should abandon them as quickly as possible.

“I think,” he said, getting up abruptly from his seat in the living room, “I think I’m going to leave, my dear.”

“What? Why?” Charlie asked, hurrying to block his path from the room.

“It’s getting late. Too late. If anyone were coming for tea, they would’ve been here already,” Alastor answered, wishing she would just let him go, let him run from this.

“Don’t be silly. It’s just a few minutes to four! He’ll be here any time now, I’m sure.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Alastor sank back down into the armchair he’d been occupying—only to jump to his feet again at the sound of a car pulling up outside.

“That must be him! Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” Charlie assured him, hurrying outside. Despite himself, Alastor crept after her, lost in morbid curiosity as to who the new arrival was. Standing very still just inside the front door, he heard Angel’s voice for the first time in years, and his heart nearly stopped.

“You’re really livin’ here, Charlie?” he teased. “The place is so tiny we almost missed it!” Charlie laughed and responded with a playful retort, yet Alastor’s head was too full of static to process it. He could dimly hear Angel’s laughter, Angel’s conspiratorial whispers, Angel’s put-on innocence, and his heart tightened more with every moment. How long had he waited for this? How desperately had he wished for it? Yet there were so many things that it could go wrong, so many ways this opportunity could slip away and be lost to him forever.

Suddenly, he was no longer frozen in place, and he bolted toward the back door to escape. This had all been a mistake. From the moment he’d heard Venture mention that Charlie and Angel were related, he had let his longing imagination run away with him, hoping for something that could never be. He had to be realistic. He had to protect himself.

Yet once he was outside, such an overwhelming sense of regret washed over him that he couldn’t bear to take another step. He stood just off the porch, his white suit dampened by the still-drizzling rain, and fought with himself. Eventually, he wound up turning back and marching up the steps again to knock at the door he’d just exited. Moments later, Charlie appeared to let him in. Before she could ask why he’d left, what he was thinking, he strode past her, through the hall, into the living room to face what he’d been hiding from for so long.

And there was Angel, standing awkwardly by the couch, hands clasped in front of him. He was wearing a dress, a pale pink, brass-buttoned thing that accented his waist and soft shoulders—quite a departure from the image Alastor recalled, the Angel who used to refute all feminine trappings for fear of being taken for a woman. Clothing notwithstanding, he was as beautiful as ever, and as their eyes met, his widened significantly.

“Oh,” he breathed. There was so much to say that Alastor couldn’t seem to settle on even a single word, so he simply waited until Angel managed to find his voice. “It’s awful good to be seein’ you again.”

Alastor’s smile, which had been teetering on a grimace, managed to pull upward at the corners as Charlie finally entered the room to join them. Her presence somehow made the moment more and less comfortable. Though he knew she was already aware, he still felt obliged to mention, “We’ve met before.” What was intended to be his usual confident bravado simply came out unnecessarily loud as he arranged himself casually by the mantle. Yet for all his feigned composure, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of Angel, who had now perched himself at the edge of another armchair and was gazing pointedly at one of the many floral arrangements about the room.

“It’s been a few years, though,” he added, not glancing in Alastor’s direction even so much as to look at his shoes.

“Five years in November,” Alastor agreed far too quickly, in the manner of someone who had been counting the days. His feeble addition of “if I’m not mistaken” did little to relieve the tension in the air. Oh, he was making an utter fool of himself. Here, finally, was the one he’d been thinking of without fail every day for years on end, yet he couldn’t bring himself to own up to those feelings. _Fool. Coward. Fool!_

As the kettle started to whistle in the kitchen, Charlie spoke with her usual cheer further exaggerated. “That must be our tea! I’ll take care of it.” She hurried into the next room, leaving Alastor alone with Angel, and a sort of animal panic overtook him at the prospect of being forced to broach the subject of their separation.

“Let me help you, my dear,” he insisted, rushing after her. As soon as they were alone in the kitchen, he dropped his head into both hands and groaned, “Nom de Dieu…”

“What’s the matter?” Charlie asked, lifting the kettle from the stove to start their tea steeping.

“This entire afternoon was a mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should never have asked this of him—or of you.” Though it fell far outside his typical character, the only thing he could think to say to either of them was _I’m sorry_.

“Alastor, don’t be so worried,” Charlie said gently, coming over to meet him. The compassion (and worse, pity) in her eyes was too much to stand. “It’s okay to be embarrassed. Angel’s embarrassed too; I can tell.”

“Angel…is embarrassed?” he repeated densely. He hadn’t considered that. That Angel might be angry, might be shocked, might be uneasy—all that, he had imagined. But embarrassed? To think that he was feeling something similar to what Alastor was? That was an entirely new concept. But an encouraging one.

“Of course he is! It’s been just as long for him as it has for you,” Charlie pointed out, arms crossed. “And you’re being… You’re being rude, leaving him in there all by himself! How do you think you would feel if—” She paused as he raised both hands, either in resignation or to stem the flow of her scolding. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he turned on his heel and returned to the living room to find Angel sitting in solemn silence. He looked up sharply as Alastor entered the room, then back down at his hands.

“Charlie is seeing to the tea,” Alastor said weakly, hands resting in his pockets.

“Sure,” Angel mumbled. “She didn’t tell me you’d be here. Did you…did you know?”

More than that, he had been the one to arrange the entire thing. But admitting all that felt unnecessary. “She mentioned that you would be visiting for tea sometime this week,” he lied casually. “It’s luck that I came by when I did, I suppose.”

Looking up at him with an amused smirk, Angel asked skeptically, “You just happened to pick today to come over? Right when I got here? While it was raining?” The knowing tone of his voice was entirely too familiar, and Alastor couldn’t help smiling in return, his first genuine smile of the afternoon.

“Absolutely. I never said it was a practical choice, but I do get lonesome now and again, living on my own in that—” He almost said ‘mansion’ but didn’t want to seem like he was trying too hard to impress Angel with his newfound material wealth. “—house. Ahem. If you had known I might be here, would you still have come?”

“Hmmm.” Angel made a show of considering thoroughly, tapping one finger against his chin. “I dunno. It’s pretty hard to say no to her.”

“Right.” The smile remained on Alastor’s lips but began to feel hollow, artificial. He wanted to speak candidly but had no idea of how to go about it. After a moment more of silence, he carefully sat at one end of the couch, posture straight as ever. “I _am_ pleased to see you.”

“Funny. You’re not actin’ like it.”

That caught him off-guard. “How do you mean?”

“You hardly wanna look at me. The most you’ve got to say is small talk. And you won’t come anywhere near me.” Surprisingly, Angel got up and came to place himself on the opposite end of the sofa, hands still folded in his lap. The golden ring on his left hand winked cruelly at Alastor’s discomfort. “Maybe your definition of ‘pleased’ and mine aren’t quite the same.”

“I’m sorry if it isn’t coming across. You know I have some difficulty expressing my feelings. Especially the ones I have toward you.” Alastor forced himself to look at Angel, to meet his eyes, to accept his presence as being real and not just one more fantasy. There was so much to be said that he hardly knew where to start, and so much of it seemed pointless and unproductive when all he really wanted was to take Angel in his arms and kiss him breathless. “I thought of you every day that we were apart. Did you ever doubt that? Did you think I’d lost interest in you?” _Is that why you married another man?_ He kept that unnecessarily accusatory question to himself.

“How was I supposed to know? Everything was different after you left. While you were there with me, I was so sure about what I wanted and where I was goin’, and then you were gone and it all just…” It was only when Angel looked abruptly away that Alastor noticed the tears shining in his eyes, and he wondered what was provoking them. Pain? Regret? Guilt? “I got lost again. I didn’t what to do with myself. I was a mess, even worse than before we met. And you were gone for years! If I’d spent all that time waitin’ on you to get back, I would’ve lost my mind.”

Recalling his earlier impatience over a few minutes’ wait, Alastor couldn’t help but sympathize. He was the one who had been gone so long, the one who had made Angel wait with nothing but the odd letter to hold him over. For a socialite who was used to the attention of four or five men at once, subsisting on only partial attention from one couldn’t have been satisfying.

“And now?” he ventured carefully. “Do you mean to say you have the things you want? With _him_? Does he provide the certainty you were looking for?” If the answer was anything less than an immediate and emphatic ‘yes,’ then there was still hope.

Angel was quiet for a moment, biting his lower lip, twisting his hands nervously. So it was a ‘no.’ “Don’t make me get into all that,” he muttered noncommittally. “I don’t wanna talk about that. After all this time, you’re finally here, and you’re gonna ask me about some other guy?”

It was gratifying in some ways to hear Angel refer to his husband as ‘some other guy,’ as if his individual person didn’t matter, as if his only distinguishing feature was that he was _not_ Alastor. “Let me ask something else, then.” He managed to move a bit closer on the couch despite his nerves. “When you saw me arrive…how did you feel then?”

“Better. Worse,” Angel answered quietly, his eyes having drifted down toward Alastor’s lips, his pretty face twisted with indecision. “I don’t know. Guilty. Ecstatic. Grateful, but like I don’t deserve it.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d talked about feeling like he didn’t deserve the good things in his life. Not that Alastor was sure he could call himself a ‘good thing,’ but it was clear Angel thought of him that way, at least to some extent. Even after all their time apart, even after he’d moved on to build a life with another man…he was still, by his own admission, ‘ecstatic’ to see Alastor there for him. That meant something. It had to.

“If it’s what you want,” he said firmly, “it’s what you deserve.”

Angel smiled again. “I missed listenin’ to you talk, ya know that? Nobody else talks about me like you do.” His hand moved slowly, tentatively across the cushion between them, just a few inches closer, a silent offer that Alastor prayed he was reading right. After only a moment’s hesitation, he slid his own hand nearer to lace their fingers together.

The touch felt every bit as forbidden and fascinating as it had the first time, the last time. Every feeling that came with it was foreign but distantly familiar, and Alastor found himself as enamored as ever of the pleasant confusion Angel brought about in him. “I could talk about you for hours and not run out of things to admire, mon ange.”

Angel shivered at that old pet name, perhaps thinking of the more intimate moments wherein Alastor had used it. He moved closer still, and Alastor’s heartbeat quickened further. From this distance, he could smell the vanilla and rose in Angel’s perfume, the same one he had always worn, and the rush of memories it brought back was altogether more intoxicating than the scent itself. Memories of the first brush of their fingers; the first press of their lips; the first night he’d spent in Angel’s downy bed, lost in that sweet scent and drinking in every breathless moan he let out. It was too much to process all at once. Too much…

Hoping Angel wouldn’t reject him (and that he would still know how to do this), he leaned in to press a kiss to those familiar pink lips. It was a soft kiss, slow and gentle. Surprisingly enough, Angel didn’t try to take more. He had always been aggressive and urgent in this area, yet for the moment, he accepted the gentle affection for what it was. And their mouths knew each other still; the contact felt every bit as familiar as it had years ago. Alastor couldn’t help but want more. His fingers curled around Angel’s, and his free hand slid through blond hair to hold his former lover closer as he deepened the kiss.

Angel let out a dreamy sigh almost like a moan, but it was more sentimental than sensual. Perhaps he’d been thinking about this for as long as Alastor had. Perhaps he’d been hoping for another chance, just one more kiss before they went their separate ways—but Alastor intended to give him much more than that. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes this time around. He wouldn’t let his love slip through his fingers again.

Even when their kiss ended, their hands remained intertwined, and although they allowed an appropriate distance between them, everything felt much closer. It was as if in finally conceding to what they both wanted, they had cleared any lingering misunderstanding between them and could finally pick up where they’d left off.

They talked for perhaps another half-hour, about the past, about Alastor’s accomplishments during the war, about anything that came to mind. The subject didn’t really matter. What mattered was that Angel’s eyes didn’t stray from him again, and he was—as he should always be—smiling the entire time. When Charlie finally reappeared from who-knew-where, they were forced to remember where they were.

“Um. I hope I’m not interrupting,” she pointed out weakly, no doubt observing the transformed air about the two of them. “It’s stopped raining.”

“Has it?” Alastor asked absently. He only just managed to pull his gaze from Angel’s to glance out the window and see that she was right, then immediately looked back to his love. “What do you think of that, cher? It’s stopped raining.”

Angel smiled beatifically, practically glowing with affection. “That’s great, Al,” he said in earnest. “I’m glad. I’m really glad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I know this scene turned out very romantic, but I promise I don't intend to sugarcoat the reality of this relationship; I very much look forward to delving into the darker bits in later chapters. In the meantime, feel free to [participate in the Twitter poll](https://twitter.com/Syntaxeme/status/1296522097385254914?s=20) to help me choose which scene to write next.  
> 


	2. Mutual Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at the first part of Alastor and Angel's relationship, before Alastor became the mysterious, eccentric figure he is today. (cw: discussion of transphobia)

Sometime between Alastor’s first stint at college and his second, he found himself staying in New York City—or rather, just outside it—for a period of a few months. It was after he’d enlisted in the military but before his deployment, a sort of strange limbo period wherein he tried to continue working toward making something of himself. To that end, he wound up boarding with the Dellarosa family in what could inarguably be called a mansion in Scarsdale.

There were plenty of rumors about how the Dellarosas had come by their wealth, particularly that they were involved in organized crime, but it wasn’t as if Alastor had moral qualms about that. One did what one had to in order to get ahead in the world. He was no different, so he didn’t hesitate to join in the family’s business. The Dellarosas’ patriarch, Enrico, hired him on as an investment analyst and financial advisor. Did Alastor have even a lick of experience in either of those roles? Of course not. But was he able to sell himself as a highly sought-after expert? Absolutely. 

In order to hold up his end of the bargain, he spent most of his free time learning the ins and outs of the stock market and New York’s real estate climate, holed up in his borrowed room until the next time Enrico called on him. Most of the ‘family’ (including Enrico’s many employees who shared the house) didn’t bother him, though he knew well that his being there stirred up their interest.

It was simple enough to pretend he didn’t notice the sidelong looks, that he didn’t hear them calling him _nerino_ to one another. He didn’t have to understand the word to know what it meant, as he’d heard the intent behind them too many times to count; it was the same tone used by his Louisianan neighbors who called him ‘colored,’ the same one used by other New Yorkers as they whispered ‘mulatto.’ Some bizarre mix of intrigue and disapproval and condescension. He had long since learned to smile through it while in the presence of others, no matter how much it rankled him that they saw him as inherently different.

There was only one member of the Dellarosa family who paid him any particular attention: Enrico’s older daughter, Angel. And it was not a sort of attention he wanted. Despite her family’s disapproval, Angel very often went out of her way to engage him in conversation, as she knew very well that he couldn’t reject her without offending her father.

“Where’s the fire, handsome?” she might ask, blocking his path as he was hurrying from her father’s office back to his own room.

Or while he was in the study, trying to concentrate, she would saunter in and seat herself far too close to him on the sofa. “What’s the story today, Al?”

 _Al._ He hated that. Not only was it overly familiar, but it reminded him too much of the painfully informal atmosphere of his youth. His full name, at least, had some dignity, but _Al_ made him sound exactly like the penniless Centenary College dropout he was trying so hard to distance himself from. He scowled every time he heard it, and Angel would invariably tease him for that too.

“Ooh, that’s a scary face,” she giggled, putting on a mock-glower of her own. “You’re always so serious, honey. Lemme try and I bet I could make ya smile for real.”

Alastor didn’t answer that sort of commentary. It wasn’t as if he had many reasons to smile genuinely at the moment. His smile was a tool, a barrier, even a weapon, strategically useful but not an indicator of whether he was actually happy. And that was fine. Happiness was nothing next to greatness. He wouldn’t have expected Angel to understand that.

She was a brat. A spoiled, selfish brat who knew nothing about hardship or strife. Worse than that: she was an utter mess, with no self-control or sense of responsibility. In spite of her father’s repeated reprimands, she would come home at all hours of the night or into the early morning, most often still under the influence of alcohol or…something else. Not a care in the world. Not a single concern for her reputation or her future. And why should she be concerned? All her life, everything had been handed to her on a silver platter. She’d never worked a day in the past, nor would she ever in the days to come. In many ways, she represented all of the things Alastor despised about her social class—and all the things he aspired to.

It took some time before he realized that none of that really represented who Angel was.

One rainy night late in the summer, as he was lying awake in his room and letting his mind drift, he heard the screen door downstairs slam, followed by splashing footsteps and a harsh half-scream of misery. Although its tone was very different from the playful laughter and teasing flirtation it usually carried, he still recognized the voice in question: Angel. But why should she be out so late, and in this sort of weather? Morbidly curious, he got up and went to the window, peering down at the back yard, which had turned into more of a water feature at this point. There, in the grass and mud, in her thin slip of a white nightgown, was Angel collapsed on the ground, head in her hands. Crying.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never seen her this way before, and he couldn’t help but wonder what had caused it. Ignoring his better judgment as it told him this was hardly his business, he ventured carefully downstairs and out the back door to approach her, despite still being in his nightclothes himself. Angel remained still where she had evidently fallen, using her rain-slick hands to claw the makeup off her face and leaving them smudged black, blue, red. Now that he was closer, he also saw that she’d had her hair cut far too short. Short hair was in style for women lately, but her bleach-blond curls had been cut away altogether, leaving only a few inches’ length and making her look boyish in a way. Even for someone as vain as her, that didn’t seem like reason enough for such a dramatic reaction.

“Angel…?” Alastor started hesitantly.

“Go away,” she growled back without looking at him. “Just leave me alone.”

“I don’t think I could forgive myself for that.” Wasn’t it right that a gentleman look after a woman in distress? He couldn’t very well claim he wanted to make something of himself without playing the part properly. So he knelt on the wet ground next to her, ignoring the chill quickly seeping into him, and insisted, “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

“What d’you care? It’s got nothin’ to do with you,” Angel muttered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. It was difficult to tell whether her shaking was from despair or cold. “Go back upstairs and read somethin’ and ignore me like you usually do.”

Now that didn’t seem entirely fair. He didn’t ignore her so much as…well, how else was he supposed to respond to her teasing? He’d always assumed it was simply a habit on her part, something she did with all men, rather than an actual desire for engagement. “I’d rather not leave you like this. A young lady shouldn’t be out in—” He stopped as Angel let out another keening groan, digging her fingernails into her arms. “Did I…say something wrong?”

“You don’t get it,” she muttered. “Nobody fuckin’ gets it. I’m so goddamn tired of bein’ the ‘young lady.’” Alastor also couldn’t help feeling that a lady shouldn’t be using that sort of language. “It’s all wrong. And there’s nothin’ I can do about it. ‘S just the way things are.”

“Nonsense.” Angel glared up at him viciously, but he insisted, “There’s always something to be done. If you want things to be different, you change them yourself. It’s a choice. Just like giving up and resigning yourself to unhappiness is a choice.”

“I’m talkin’ about my body, idiot,” she hissed, her fierce eyes still locked on his. “I’m talkin’ about bein’ a girl when I shoulda been a boy. I was born like this. What choice do I have there? How d’you want me to change it?”

Well, that certainly wasn’t the issue Alastor had been imagining was causing her such distress. From what he’d seen, she was quite happy with her body and enjoyed showing it off—yet it was clear that her pain over the subject was very real. “The fact that you can’t change your body doesn’t mean you’re powerless. You have control over the way you look, the way you behave, and the people you surround yourself with. If you want those things to be different, if it means that much to you, you can change them.” _Just like I am._

“Wait.” Angel’s hard gaze softened slightly. “You’re sayin’ you…believe me?”

“Why shouldn’t I? You know who you are better than I do, I’m sure.” And she—no, he—was apparently not the blithe, careless person Alastor had taken him for since his arrival. Not if this pain had been lurking in the back of his mind the entire time without ever being visible. “Besides, I understand what it’s like to feel…out of place in the role you were born to.” Why was he telling Angel all this? It was dangerous. The longer Angel watched him with that unexpectedly thoughtful look in his eyes, the more he felt that everything about this conversation was very delicate and that he shouldn’t have started it in the first place.

“My parents always say it’s a phase. That’s what they say every time I try to bring it up. And then…” He surprised Alastor with a laugh. “And then there’s you, some stranger from God-knows-where who’s barely known me a month, and you just? Go right along with it, no questions asked?”

“I suppose I don’t see you the same way they do.” As those words left his lips, he realized how they must sound and quickly tried to backpedal, his cheeks flushing. “Er, not that I meant—I wasn’t trying to say—”

“I know what you meant, Al,” Angel laughed, shaking his head. As it turned out, when not laced with intentional provocation and condescension, that nickname bothered him much less. Angel shivered and held himself tighter, forcing Alastor to notice how tightly his soaked nightgown clung to his figure (at which point he quickly looked away, of course). “It’s freezin’ out here. We should probably head back inside.”

“Probably.” Because it felt like something he should do, he offered his hand, and Angel took it, allowing Alastor to help him stand. They went up onto the covered porch and tried in vain to wring some of the water from their clothes, but it was no use; they were both thoroughly soaked.

“Come on,” Angel said, nodding toward the door, “there’s towels upstairs.” They hurried inside and up to the third floor bathroom as quickly and quietly as possible, nevertheless leaving a trail of water along the carpet, which Alastor made a note to go back and clean up. “Close the door.”

Presuming that Angel didn’t want to wake anyone, Alastor did as he was told. When Angel turned on the shower, he froze. “What are you doing?”

“I was sittin’ out there in the mud, and I’m freezin’ cold; I wanna wash off,” Angel explained as he stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain closed. Steam soon started to float through the air, fogging the mirror over the sink. “I bet you could use a turn in here too. Just gimme a minute and I’ll be out.”

Though Alastor was decidedly uncomfortable with the situation, he supposed it could’ve been worse; Angel could have stripped out of his clothing right there in front of him. And if he was honest, the prospect of a hot shower did seem very appealing right now. As long as Angel didn’t try to make it into something it wasn’t.

“How did you end up outside?” he asked, hoping the time would pass more quickly if they were talking. “What happened?” A few seconds passed in silence.

“Doesn’t matter. Just my dad and my brother bein’…the way they are. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But every time, it still—”

A knock at the bathroom door cut off his answer and sent Alastor’s heart rate skyrocketing. All of a sudden, he was forced to realize what a compromising position he’d found himself in; being caught like this with Angel would _not_ look good.

“Angie?” The voice that came from outside was similar to Angel’s in some ways but softer and higher. His twin, Molly, most likely. “You in there?”

“Uh, yeah, Molls, what’s up?” Angel called back, sticking his head outside the curtain and looking every bit as stricken as Alastor felt.

“Can I come in? I wanna take my makeup off before bed, and my cold cream’s in there.”

“Ya can’t wait ‘til I’m done?”

“Oh, c’mon, it’ll only take a minute.” The doorknob turned, and Alastor panicked, frantically trying to figure out how he could explain his presence in a way that was believable.

“Hang on! At least lemme get in first,” Angel insisted, and his sister sighed from behind the door.

“Fine, just tell me when.”

Gesturing for Alastor to come closer, Angel hissed quietly, “Get in!”

“Absolutely not,” Alastor answered, his voice firm but just as quiet.

“Al, if she tells my old man you were in here with me, he’ll fuckin’ murder you!”

Begrudgingly, he had to admit that was a very fair point. And even if Molly were to wait outside for Angel to finish, that would still leave the problem of how Alastor would get out of the room without her knowing. It seemed like he didn’t have many choices. Trying in vain to suppress his unease about the whole situation, he conceded and stepped into the shower with Angel, sure to keep a reasonable distance between them.

“All right, you can come in,” Angel called to his sister, and she did so without hesitation, shutting the door behind her. From the sound of things, she was rummaging around in the drawers, and Alastor remained stock still as if it would lessen his chances of being caught.

“So…what were you and Papa fightin’ about this time?” she asked casually.

“Y’know, same old, same old.” Angel stood under the hot water, trying to rub the remaining mud out of the edges of his nightgown. It was already short enough to show quite a lot of skin, Alastor couldn’t help noticing, and the fact that the water had turned it translucent didn’t help matters. He quickly looked away for the sake of Angel’s privacy. “I got feelings that don’t line up with his, and it pisses him off.”

“It sounded bad. I mean, worse than usual. You okay?”

Angel let out a scoff, his expression and voice unexpectedly bitter. “He didn’t hit me or anything if that’s what you’re askin’. Ain’t right to hit a girl, after all.” Somewhere in the midst of his anger, there was deep-seated pain in his eyes.

“Just give him time, Angie,” his sister said gently. “It’s still new and he doesn’t get it yet, but he will.”

“New?” Angel snapped, glaring in her direction so hard his gaze could’ve burned a hole in the shower curtain. “It’s been two fuckin’ years since I first told him! He’s not even tryin’ to get used to it; he’s just hopin’ it’ll go away if he ignores it. Ya can’t keep makin’ excuses for him forever. Someday you’re gonna hafta face the fact that he just doesn’t give a shit how I feel.” His reprimand left the room in charged silence, other than the running of the shower.

Despite his earlier concerns about modesty, Alastor now couldn’t seem to look away from Angel. His dark eyes were gleaming in the low light and reddened around the edges like he was avoiding crying by sheer force of will, his lips curled in a defensive sneer, his body tense with fury. With his makeup washed away, his hair soaked, his gown stained, he looked exactly the opposite of his usual polished and unbothered image. And he was beautiful. For the first time, he felt tangible and real, sympathetic in a way Alastor hadn’t expected to find under this roof. Fascinating. Enthralling.

When he noticed the way Alastor was watching him, he flushed and quickly averted his gaze. But although his passion had faded, Alastor’s interest did not. “Did you actually come in here to take your makeup off?” he muttered to his sister. “Or didja just wanna check on me?”

“A little of both, I guess. I was hoping I could make you feel better, but…I don’t think I did a very good job of it,” Molly sighed. And of course, how could she? How could she relate to the feeling of being denied what was rightfully hers, the inescapable anger at a world that refused to cooperate? Alastor, on the other hand, knew that feeling well.

“Don’t worry about it. It ain’t your responsibility to—” He let out a yelp as she turned on the sink and the shower ran suddenly hot. “Shit, Molly!” As he sprang away from the scalding water, he had no place to go but closer to Alastor, his hands serving as a meager barrier between them. His blushing didn’t fade as he looked up apologetically.

“Oh no! I’m sorry, Angie, I’m so sorry!” Molly said, quickly turning the tap back off. “Ugh, I’m the worst. I didn’t mean to—”

“Molly, relax.” Angel’s voice had lowered slightly, and when his realized his eyes were lingering on Alastor’s lips, he dropped his head to avoid looking at him. “Just…gimme some time alone, okay? I need to work through it on my own.”

“Well. If you say so,” she answered, though she seemed unsure herself. “It’s gettin’ late, so you should probably head to bed soon. Hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning. G’night.”

“Night.” She left the room, and they remained where they stood, waiting with bated breath until her footsteps disappeared down the hall. Once he was sure she was gone, Angel let out a slow sigh and looked up to meet Alastor’s eyes again. “Sorry. I kinda panicked.”

“No harm done.” There was a distinct difference in the way Angel appeared to him now. The tension lingering between them had become softer in a way but was no less powerful. Although he had no personal experience with it before this moment, he still recognized what he was feeling as attraction. It was nothing to do with this revelation about Angel’s gender, not even a byproduct of seeing him quiet and vulnerable for once; Alastor’s interest hadn’t sparked until that moment of reflexive anger wherein he’d pushed back against the mistreatment being forced on him. Try as he might, Alastor couldn’t seem to shake the desire to get closer and see more of that passion.

“You’re shiverin’,” Angel pointed out quietly, forcing him back to the moment at hand. And he was right. How embarrassing. Fortunately, it seemed he had a solution in mind. “C’mere.” Taking Alastor’s hands in both of his, he stepped back to stand under the warm water and pulled Alastor along with him. The warmth was heavenly after he’d stood around chilled for so long, but it wasn’t what really held his attention.

Rather than releasing his hands, Angel pulled them down to his own hips, tentatively, as if he thought Alastor might jerk away from his touch. And maybe an hour or two ago, he would have. Maybe even twenty minutes ago. Now, however, he let his hands rest fully against Angel’s hips, suppressing a shiver as he realized just how well he could feel the shape of Angel’s body through his one thin layer of pale silk. His mind short-circuited briefly as Angel’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and every plush inch of him pressed closer still.

“Still cold?” he asked, toying with the ends of Alastor’s hair.

“…maybe a little.” His gaze had caught on Angel’s lips, his heart racing from all this contact (illicit as it was).

“Poor thing,” the blond said with a knowing grin. “Lemme help.” He stood up on his toes and pulled Alastor down at the same time so their lips could meet. _Is there a single part of him that isn’t this soft?_ What a fascinating contrast to the daggers in his eyes earlier. When he hesitantly licked his lips, Alastor took it as an invitation and tilted his head to slip his tongue into Angel’s mouth.

The feeling itself was nice enough, somehow hotter and slicker than the water on their skin, but what really affected him was the airy moan that passed from Angel’s mouth to his. His hands slid upward from Angel’s hips to his waist, pulling the hem of his nightgown higher along with them.

Breaking away from him with a shiver, Angel muttered, “You could…take it off if ya want.”

Shocked and panicked by that sudden offer, Alastor yanked his hands back so quickly he wound up slipping and falling to the floor of the tub. “Merde.”

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Angel asked, kneeling to check on him. _Perfect. How many ways can I embarrass myself in the span of 30 seconds?_

“Yes. I’m sorry. That was an…overreaction, I’m sure.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Despite his efforts to hide it, it was impossible to miss the sympathetic smile on Angel’s face. “You’re so weird.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“I dunno. _I_ like it.” He leaned in for another quick kiss—which Alastor found he returned by reflex—before getting up to turn the water off and stepping out of the shower. “More than I woulda figured.” He took two towels from the cabinet on the wall and tossed one to Alastor, then used the other to rub his long legs dry. It wasn’t until he looked up and their eyes met again that Alastor realized he’d been watching that action a bit too closely.

 _Damn it, what is the matter with me?_ This newfound interest in Angel was something totally foreign to him, and he had no clue how he was expected to respond to it.

Wrapping his towel around his shoulders, Angel hesitated for a moment before venturing, “Thanks for checkin’ on me. I’d probably still be sittin’ out there in the rain if you hadn’t.”

“Glad to help,” Alastor said, finally climbing out of the tub himself. “The next time your father upsets you, consider coming to me before you run out and risk catching pneumonia.”

Angel laughed at that, and the sound forced Alastor to smile as well. “Yeah, I think I will. I’ve kept ya up late enough this time, though, so I guess I’ll get outta your hair. G’night.”

“Good night, Angel.” Even once he had gone, with one last bashful glance back, Alastor stood still on the bathmat, holding his towel in both hands. Angel was right: if Enrico found out about this night, especially about that kiss, he would have Alastor’s head. The disparity in their levels of experience was painfully apparent as well. And if he thought about it, there was really no reason for someone like Angel—an heir to a wealthy and powerful New York family—to be interested in a plain southern boy who had grown up in poverty.

Yet no matter how many objective reasons there were to discourage it, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the night’s events.

He took his glasses off for a moment to dry his face, then put them back on and absently scrubbed his hair. All this time, he’d genuinely thought that he disliked Angel. As it turned out, the issue was more that they simply didn’t know each other. And if this night was any indication, he very much wanted to change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join the Twitter poll](https://twitter.com/Syntaxeme/status/1306973025221443587?s=20) to help me decide on the next chapter! You can also [follow me on Twitter](http://twitter.com/syntaxeme/) to get the earliest updates on all my work.


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